The Art of Moving On
by Sanatoria
Summary: Death and war has a funny way of changing people. Under a cloak of misery, even once-opposites start to seem more like reflections. (In the aftermath of the Third Shinobi War, Kakashi and Obito are more similar than they will ever know.)


He wakes, gasping, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Another nightmare.

Rin, again.

He had stabbed her. (He had watched Kakashi stab her.) Right through the center of her chest, through the sternum and ribs and connective tissue and her _heart_ , and she had turned to him and given him a look of pure betrayal (pure disappointment).

 _You couldn't save me, Kakashi. (You couldn't save me, Obito.)_

He breathes in, out. Closes his eye, since the other one he keeps always closed (since the other one he had given away).

And then snaps it open again, because in the darkness of his mind, all he sees are Rin's wide brown eyes and the blood dripping out her mouth.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

Slowly, the hazy terror subsides.

He tries to go back to sleep.

* * *

He stares down at his right hand.

No matter how hard he scrubs at it, it will always be crimson red. (No matter how much he hates it, it will always be bone-white.)

Sometimes, he scrubs so hard that the skin breaks and beads of blood form. (Sometimes, he rips the artificial limb off. It always grows back.)

When that happens, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

This is the hand that killed Rin. (These are the hands that killed a platoon of fifty ANBU.)

It's a murderer's hand.

That's okay, though, he thinks, his thoughts teetering on the brink of hysteria. He's a murderer now, anyways.

* * *

The mission. (The plan.) That's all that matters.

If he focuses on that, then he can almost, _almost_ forget about falling boulders and former teammates and cold, dead Ri—

He can forget, if he _focuses_.

His eye spins to red as he observes the sleeping shinobi. Against the Sharingan, even the most elaborate of illusions are as bright and obvious as day. They will be easy to slaughter.

"Wait here," he tells his team (he tells White Zetsu). "You can't see past the genjutsu. I'll take care of this."

He jumps down from the tree.

These Iwa shinobi are carrying Konoha documents back to the Land of Stone. (These Kiri shinobi are delivering a letter of truce to Kumo.)

He won't let that happen.

He sinks his tantō into one chest, then another, then another; swift, silent, emotionless. (He forms a seal, and the sharp wood that erupts out of the ground impales the sleeping bodies, raising them into the air like grotesque puppets.)

It's over in seconds. Blood spreads across the grass and seeps into the soil.

These men will never wake up, he thinks bluntly. Numbly.

And he had been right, too, in how easy that had been. He hadn't even had to use his Chidori. (He hadn't even had to use his Kamui.)

…Although maybe that's for the best.

He determinedly ignores the murmurs of _her_ voice, whispering his name in the back of his mind.

His teammates stare at him (White Zetsu stares at him) as he jumps back onto the tree branch. He ignores their judging stares (its judging stare), just as he ignores the bright red blood splattered across his white ANBU mask (his white, swirled mask).

"We're done here," he says, his voice flat and cold. He turns. Leaves.

One more mission completed successfully; one more mission that hadn't been a failure, like _that_ one. (One more step closer to his and Madara's plans; one more step closer to becoming someone who wasn't an incompetent idiot.)

Later, he reports to the ANBU Commander. (Later, he reports to Madara.)

"You've been performing exceptionally well, despite your young age," the ANBU Commander remarks (Madara remarks). "Keep this up, and perhaps you'll soon be ready to take on my mantle."

He nods. The Commander trusts him. (Madara trusts him.)

This time, he won't be a failure.

* * *

"You're late again, Kakashi," Gai says with a frown. ("You're early again, Obito," White Zetsu says with a smile.)

"So what if I am?" he says, bristling. He wants to get this reconnaissance mission over and done with as quickly as possible.

"Well, it's unlike you."

"I don't particularly care, so I don't see why you would, either," he says stonily. He hopes his partner takes the hint and drops the topic so they can focus on the mission.

"…You've changed." Gai sounds troubled. (White Zetsu sounds pleased.)

He scowls behind his mask, and turns away.

* * *

He stares into the mirror.

These days, he wears a different mask. Navy blue, instead of white. (Orange, instead of yellow.) Because he's Kakashi of the Sharingan now, instead of Friend-Killer Kakashi. (Because he's Uchiha Madara now, instead of Uchiha Obito.)

Because he's a compassionate jōnin-sensei now, instead of a ruthless killing machine—and most days, it feels true enough, so he counts it a success. (Because he's in control of this world now, instead of letting this world control him—and each day, he gets closer and closer to his goal, so he counts it a success.)

He has changed—greatly. But it's been a change for the better. This he knows with absolute certainty.

Still. He stares at his covered face—where the only thing visible is a single eye—and wonders who he really is behind it.

* * *

"Sensei!" Naruto accuses. ("Tobi!" Deidara accuses.) "Were you even listening?"

"Er… yes, yes I was," he replies, his voice light and innocent.

Naruto (Deidara) looks at him suspiciously. "Well, let's _go_ , then. We've got a Sanbi to capture."

He hums agreeably, puts away his book (finishes off his dango), and sets off with the impatient teenager.

* * *

Across the barren, gray landscape of the Kamui dimension, stands his former teammate.

The crimson eye they both possess, and the scars they both have, are a stark reminder of their shared past.

He doesn't want to fight Obito. (He's not surprised Kakashi is reluctant to fight him.)

Obito… Obito wasn't supposed to be like this. (Kakashi has turned out exactly as he had expected.)

They seem to be completely different from each other in every aspect. It's horrifying. (It's natural.)

A part of him doesn't understand how his former teammate—someone who had once been so kind, so _cheerful_ (someone who had once been so ruthless, so _cynical_ )—can't see that he's wrong. A part of him wants to talk, to argue, to convince.

But the rest of him knows that it's too late for that. The person standing across from him is too different, too far removed from how he used to be.

And a familiar face isn't going to deter him, not this late into the war.

This world will not end.

(This world will end.)

* * *

 **A/N: Not sure if this has been done before, but it was a fun experiment to write. Tell me what you think of it!**


End file.
